Sword of the Gods - Bruce R. Cordell [8]
While he couldn’t find any clues as to his identity, at least he was finally able to establish how many people had died: twelve genasi, plus two humans and one halfling. A total of fifteen, then. Fifteen question marks, plus himself: one brain-wiped enigma with a handful of potential clues and other goodies stolen from the dead.
Demascus laid out the fruits of his search on the stone altar.
His trove included some journeybread and leaf-wrapped cheese. Five wine skins, two almost full. Several generous handfuls of gold and silver coin, which he transferred to a single pouch. A couple satchels. A sheath for the sword he’d found. A lantern and a couple tindertwigs. Cunningly made leather armor that had escaped the conflict without a single cut or bloodstain. Several weapons, though none seemed any better than the sword he’d already claimed. And, the crowning achievement of his search: a bone scrollcase stuffed with a rolled parchment.
Demascus tapped the parchment tube from the case and spread it out on the stone: a map. The sides wanted to roll back into a tight cylinder, so he weighted them with stones.
The map’s most prominent feature was a great inland ocean filling the top of the page. It was labeled, “Sea of Fallen Stars.”
Assuming up was north, the ragged coastline of Akanûl bordered the sea to the south. Three cities were marked: New Breen, Brassune, and Airspur.
Demascus’s heart skipped a beat; he knew Airspur. It was a city of … genasi.
Only one other place was marked on the map, at the northeastern tip of a range of mountains called the Akanapeaks. It was a small circle, near Airspur, drawn in by a hand different than the original cartographer’s. A scrawl of text in the same style read, “Old Shrine,” and then, “Cult activity?”
That was all.
Demascus squinted at the parchment, hoping the names and shapes would jog some additional memory.
No. But it wasn’t too much a leap to guess that he was standing within the very “Old Shrine” noted.
Which would put Airspur—he glanced to the west—over the ridge and some miles that way.
The dead genasi either were the cult activity described on the map, or they had come out to investigate it.
He had a goal. Unless everyone was dead there too, he would find some answers in Airspur.
He rolled up the map, and packed away his trove in the satchels. He collected the armor in a bundle, and examined his borrowed sword. The demonic ichor that had stained it had evaporated just like the dretch. Too bad he couldn’t as easily clean himself. He was covered in mud and blood. Probably not the best appearance to present when he showed up at Airspur’s gates.
He looked around and spied standing water on the other side of the hollow that wasn’t choked in mud and bodies.
Demascus walked to the rain pool, removing his borrowed long coat and shirt. He kneeled at the water’s edge to wash, and froze.
His reflection in the water stared back at him.
He was tall and slender, and his skin was pale. His hair was a shock of white. Tattoos like ashes leftover from a fire traced a single connected, abstract pattern from his shoulders all the way down to his index and middle finger on each hand. It seemed like the design continued across his back, but he couldn’t angle himself properly to see.
He blinked. Did he know this face? Maybe. The stark coloration and designs on his skin were similar to a genasi’s only in vague terms. And genasi didn’t have hair, unless crystal spikes and crests counted.
He ran his hands through his own generous locks, and wondered at its hue. It wasn’t simply white. More like …
“The light that transfixes the hearts of betrayers,” he muttered. Another memory! From where or when, he couldn’t say, but he had a feeling it was something someone had once told him.
He studied his own image awhile longer, examining his profile from the left and then the right. It was a fine face, and graceful. It was possible he was biased.
Demascus snorted, and washed the mud and genasi blood from his skin and clothing. For someone who was apparently